by Tom Bajoras

I hear the wind in lonely fences,
the low and rising growls of wolverine bones
buried under storm-soaked prairies.

I hear the footsteps of ghosts
chasing bison across the plain.
There a marker, hidden in the mud,
tells of a bride snatched by fever
from her young husband’s arms.

Oh the weeping that winter
with the wind in fences
crisscrossing unplowed fields
like snakeskins shed
and spirits
gone to higher places.